


Into the Unknown

by arabmorgan



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-12 16:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21479119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabmorgan/pseuds/arabmorgan
Summary: Sansa grows up with Sandor Clegane as her sworn shield. And then she wakes up in a world where he's Joffrey's instead.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 140





	1. 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> Truthfully, I don't really know what this is. Please don't expect a plot bc I just...really wanted to write this random scenario that popped into my head i.e. that a Sansa who grew up knowing Sandor her whole life somehow met canon Sandor...? There's a lot of hand-waving and plot holes.

It’s the heat that stirs her from her slumber, an unusual stickiness that prickles across her skin where the thin sheets lay across her body, but it’s the faint stink permeating the air that finally rouses her fully.

Blinking blearily against the morning light, Sansa freezes at the sight of the unfamiliar room before her. _This isn’t Winterfell_, she thinks, rather blankly. She sits up slowly, eyes darting around the lavishly-decorated, utterly unfamiliar tower room before a sudden pain in her stomach makes her wince.

Through the light silk shift, she can just about make out a fist-sized bruise blooming red and violet across her torso, and the sight makes her suck in a horrified breath. Now that she’s looking, she can see more marks on her upper arms, and another large bruise curling around the edge of her ribs. The pain is bearable, but the shock of her situation brings tears to her eyes all the same.

Where _is_ she? It’s too warm for her to be anywhere but south, but surely she can’t have closed her eyes in the north and awoken two thousand miles away the next morning?

“Milady?”

Sansa jerks around to blink uncertainly at the other girl sharing her bed. Her bedmaid, she deduces with a rush of hesitant relief, and yet the petite girl watches her with detached coolness in her eyes as she slides out of the bed and moves away from Sansa.

Sansa meekly allows herself to be directed – to wash, to sit, to step into her gown, to hold still while her hair is bundled elaborately atop her head in a series of tight braids. Her neck feels oddly unprotected without the familiar weight of her thick tresses resting against it, but she remains silent. It’s vexing, not to be able to say anything, but none of the maids who step through the door look familiar or at all friendly. There is no giggling or gossip to be had here, and none of them so much as glance at the bruises on her skin.

She doesn’t feel _safe_.

Eventually she is left alone in a blue silk gown, soft and fluttery to the touch, its low neckline leaving her collarbones bare, so very unlike her own practical dresses, thick and warm against the bite of the winds in the north. She drifts over to the tower window and stares out at the walls of red brick and the sprawling city beyond for a long, long moment, her mind reeling with confusion.

She knows only one castle of red brick that overlooks such a large city. She must be in the Red Keep, in Kings Landing. In the _south_. How has she come to be in the _south_?

It’s starting to get hard to breathe, and her fingers are trembling so hard that her gown whirls lightly about her legs. Surely she can’t be the only one here – surely Mother is somehow in the south as well, or Father or Robb, or even Arya. A choked sob escapes from her throat just as the door behind her opens again, the hinges squeaking momentarily.

Brushing at her tears with one voluminous sleeve, Sansa turns, lips pressed together and head high. The next moment, her mouth drops open and her chest hitches, and then she is flying across the room, already sobbing with relief even before she crashes into an armoured chest.

“_Sandor_!” she wails, the breath all but knocked out of her. She feels his large hand come to rest on her shoulder, settling for a moment, before she is abruptly shoved away from him. Stumbling, she falls backwards, a gasp of pain leaving her lips as her bruised arm bumps against the corner of her bed.

“What are you doing, girl?” he demands gruffly, and she bursts into fresh tears at the sound of his familiar voice.

“I’m so glad you’re here too,” she sniffles, looking up at him through a gaze blurry with tears. “I thought I was all alone. We’re in the south, aren’t we? However will we get home?”

Distantly, she sees him lowering himself to the ground, one knee clanking against the stone as he kneels before her. Gratefully, she grabs on to one of his vambraces and pulls herself to her feet, tottering forward to throw her arms around his neck. Her tears are drying now that Sandor, of all people, is here with her, but she allows herself to sag against him all the same. He’s stiff and unmoving, not even patting her on the back like he does sometimes when she’s upset, but she supposes he’s not very happy about their current situation either.

All of a sudden, he picks her up bodily, wrapping his arm about her waist and rising to his full height. She huffs in surprise, but he only slams the door shut behind him and takes the few steps needed to set her back gently down on the bed.

“Happy to see this old dog, are you?” he growls. “_Explain_ yourself, girl.”

Sansa blinks, confused by the hostility in his tone, and finally she wipes her eyes properly in order to take a good look at the man towering over her. His hair is longer than she is accustomed to seeing on him, and hangs strangely over the burnt side of his face, while the good side of his mouth twists down in an expression that has never before been directed at her. But it’s the unfamiliar raw anger in his grey eyes that unnerves her and loosens her tongue.

“You’re not my Sandor,” she blurts, and then she clamps her mouth shut, brows furrowing in consternation.

Sandor stares at her, and while he might not be hers, he is certainly similar enough to her own sworn shield that she can read him as easily as a book. That barely perceptible twitch of his eyelid is annoyance, the slight motion of scarred skin between his brow confusion – and the rage in his eyes rises and recedes, but never truly leaves.

He takes a step back, no longer crowding over her, and drops to one knee again so that his face is level with hers. “Explain,” he repeats, albeit not quite as fiercely as before.

Sansa frowns at him. It’s distracting, the way his hair falls so sparsely over the left side of his face. She can imagine it flapping against his cheek when he fights, and the thought baffles her. Her Sandor always keeps his hair out of his face – he doesn’t approve of distractions of any kind in battle. She reaches out to brush the offending strands away, but this Sandor leans back immediately with a grunt, his hand flying up to catch her wrist in a bruising grip.

“What are you doing?” he demands, at the same time that she snaps, “You’re _hurting _me!” and he immediately drops her hand like it’s a flaming coal.

“What are _you_ doing?” she retorts indignantly, reaching for his shoulder and pulling him forward again. “You look like you forgot to wash in the morning, letting your hair get in your face like that.” Wrinkling her nose in annoyance, she runs her fingers through his dark hair, smoothing the fine strands out before brushing them properly over the right side of his head. He is very still, barely even breathing it seems, as she sweeps stray wisps of hair from the craters of his scars until he looks like her proper sworn shield again.

Pulling back, she looks him over critically. His hair is still too long, but at least she can see his whole face now.

“There,” she says, pleased, and can’t help smiling at the befuddled expression on his sweet face. She presses her hand to his cheek like she has seen her father do so often to her mother, and Sandor’s eyes fall shut for a moment, his throat working as he swallows. It almost feels like he’s trembling, even though he’s told her often enough that he can’t really feel her touches on his scarred side. Still, it’s the _knowing_ that counts, she thinks.

He raises his hand in an aborted motion, as if to touch his own face or to grab her hand again, before appearing to think better of it. “Little bird,” he starts, and her chest swells at the beloved nickname. He seems to want to speak, but can’t find the words to do so, and she finally takes pity on him.

“I’m Sansa Stark,” she says patiently, “and you’re Sandor Clegane, my sworn shield. Well, back in Winterfell you are. I was just there yesterday – at home, in Winterfell, then I went to bed last night and woke up here this morning. In the _Red Keep_! I’ve never even been south before.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as she reaches down to tug on Sandor’s hand, clutching his fingers nervously.

Sandor shakes his head like an angry horse breaking loose. “And I suppose the next thing you’ll be saying is that Lord Stark is alive, is he?” His tone is scathing, deliberately so, and Sansa wonders vaguely if he’s trying to frighten her.

“Why wouldn’t my father be alive?” she says slowly, her grip on him loosening as she stares into his eyes. They are the eyes of a stranger, and yet not, and the unease that had fled at the sight of him abruptly returns to pool in her stomach.

Sandor only snorts, sidestepping her question with none of the grace that he displays in the training yard. “I’m not your sworn shield, girl. You’ve run mad.” His words are rough, but his tone is gentle, careful almost. “Now come along, I’m to escort you to the king before the midday meal.”

Something in Sansa loosens at that, and she takes his offered arm with a smile of relief. “Oh, good. Perhaps the king will know what to do about this mess. He’ll be able to send me home,” she sighs, and goes to take a step forward, but Sandor doesn’t move, and she peeks up at him in confusion.

He’s looking down at her with the oddest look on his face, like dread or fear, and it’s such a disconcertingly foreign expression on him that concern wells up in her.

“Sandor?” she murmurs tentatively. “What is it?”

His fist clenches and unclenches, and he closes his eyes for a long moment. “You’re not well today, little bird. I cannot expose the king to your madness,” he says derisively, tugging his arm out of her grasp and giving her a shove towards the bed. “Crawl under your blankets and plead weakness to your nosy maids. And by the seven, keep your wild tales to yourself, _girl_.” He leans close to hiss those last words at her, ferocious, and she stares at him, bewildered.

“Are you leaving?” she whispers, rocking forward on the balls of her feet, but the anxious tic playing by the corner of his mouth keeps her from reaching out. He’s worried, she can tell, and angry besides.

His glare flickers across her face, his head inclining ever so slightly. “For now,” he grunts. “I’ll return on the morrow to see if you’re in any fit state to leave this room.”

Somehow, Sansa manages to dredge up a weak smile from somewhere within her, although her lashes are again wet with tears. “I’m scared,” she admits, taking a tentative step forward to slide her hand into his far larger one, pressing tight against his calloused skin.

“And well you should be. Silly little bird.” Sandor stares down at their joined hands for a heartbeat before pulling away. He meets her gaze straight-on once more, a gleam of distrustful amazement in his eyes, before he pulls the heavy door open and is gone.


	2. 1.2

The chill settles upon her exposed cheeks, a welcome coolness that finally rouses her to wakefulness, if only because it feels so very much like _home_. She can almost believe that she will soon hear the dull clash of wooden swords from a distance, accompanied by the childish shouts of delight of Robb and Theon and Bran. Behind her closed lids, she can picture Arya skulking about the training yard, watching the boys yearningly while keeping a wary eye out for Septa Mordane.

A wash of homesickness tightens her chest, and she can hardly bring herself to open her eyes – but when she does, it is to the silvery light of a sharp northern morning and the plain walls of Winterfell. Outside, the birds are singing to the dawn.

Sansa lies frozen in bed for a long time, drinking in the crisp air and the weight of the thick blankets upon her limbs. She stares at the dull stone walls, edges worn smooth by time, and the cold grey sliver of sky she can see from the bed. Has there ever been a more beautiful, terrible dream?

Finally, she slides out of bed and throws on a plain woollen dress, moving without pain for the first time in a long while. It’s early yet, and even the men-at-arms will only just be stirring from their own beds. She has longed for home for so long; she refuses to awake before she manages to walk its corridors one last time.

And yet she cannot help pausing to run her fingers over the old hairbrush lying on her table, tracing the spaces her mother’s fingers had once occupied, her every motion swift and sure as she ran the bristles through Sansa’s thick tresses. Her fingers convulse, clutching on to the wooden handle for a moment before letting go. There is too much for her to see and she cannot linger.

She feels like a ghost as she pads through the empty corridors of Winterfell, nodding absently to the guards stationed before the bridge to the armoury. The yard below is still near-deserted – a stable boy leads a horse across the hard-packed dirt, and a little later the first men begin to trickle into sight, laughing and joking as the sound of steel rings in the air, slowly at first as their blood warms with the dawning day.

She’s almost forgotten how different the men of the north are from the knights of the south, Sansa realises, thinking of the gleaming armour of the Kingsguard and the fair features of the Lannisters. She looks down at the grunting, shouting northmen, with their dark hair and weather-beaten skin and uncouth manners – these are the men who have seen her grow from babe to girl to almost a woman grown, and she knows that she would trust her life to any of them in an instant.

Suddenly, one of them looks up as if drawn by the loudness of her thoughts, his single brow raising at the sight of her peering down through the window, and Sansa reels back, her heart suddenly racing in her chest.

_The Hound_, she thinks, with a thrill of mingled terror and confusion. _He doesn’t belong in Winterfell._

She turns back to the window with a nervous swallow, but he is gone from sight, and somehow she knows that he is coming for her. _Let him_, she thinks defiantly. After all, he is in _her _dream, in _her _home.

Sure enough, he soon comes striding across the bridge towards her, and she finds herself speechless with fear despite her earlier resolve. His hair is all brushed back from his face, leaving his terrible scars and that horrifying missing ear exposed to the world in a mess of black and silver. His mouth twists in an unreadable expression as he nears, looming over her as he is wont to do.

“Why are you out of bed so early, little bird?” he rasps, and his tone is so peculiar that she can’t quite place it at first. The very sight of him is making her rather faint, and she wishes he would turn just a little more to the left to hide the ruined half of his face.

Not that he would, she thinks bitterly. Even in her dreams he can’t be content unless he’s scaring the wits out of her.

“Sansa?” he says, quieter this time, his voice grating even more in his effort to be gentle. “What’s wrong?” He lays his heavy paw on her shoulder and she flinches away, cowering beneath her cloak, and he abruptly goes very still. He’d given her his cloak once, she remembers, and all at once she feels guilty for her uncharitable thoughts towards him.

It’s just that he’s so frightening it’s difficult to notice much of anything else.

Gathering herself, Sansa lifts her chin and sets her jaw, her gaze skittering across his face. He looks – _confused_. Confused and just a little worried, perhaps, but not furious. Now that she’s seen it, she can’t help noticing the change in his demeanour, the lack of anger in his eyes and the relaxed set of his hulking shoulders. There is still danger in him, if only for his sheer size, but hostility no longer rolls off him in intimidating waves like a boiling pot close to overflowing.

“Ser?” she stammers, unnerved.

The Hound lets out a booming laugh, and this time Sansa does stumble a step backwards at the sudden outburst, but he reaches out to catch her shoulder before she can turn tail and flee. This is Winterfell – she may not be Arya or Bran, but she is secure in the knowledge that she knows her own home well enough to find a hiding place from a southerner.

“Careful there, little bird,” the Hound murmurs, stepping closer once more, and she can almost feel the heat of his hand scalding her through her cloak. “What’s happened? I’m no ser. Did you have a nightmare? Shall I escort you to your lady mother?”

She stares at him, lost. The only nightmare here is his presence, teasing her with memories of her mother, half a world away. She shakes her head numbly – she refuses to take the chance that Joffrey will appear from out of nowhere with his crossbow in hand, Boros Blount by his side with his sword at the ready, this time for her mother instead of her.

No, she would rather have a dream without her mother than a dream with Joffrey in it.

“I’m alright,” she whispers. “Thank you.” She wants to say more, but she knows how much he detests her nervous polite chatter, so perhaps it is a blessing that the rest of her words catch in her throat.

Putting his large fingers beneath her chin, he tilts her face up lightly. “Alright, little bird. Keep your secrets then,” he says, his voice a rumbling snarl rather than a bark. “Shall we visit the kitchens? Break your fast with a lemon cake or two – although your lady mother will not be best pleased with me.” His mouth curves up in a grimacing smile, but his eyes are bright and amused.

Sansa begins to walk, directed by the light pressure of his arm on her shoulder, feeling dazed by the unreality of the entire situation. Curious that the kindness of the Hound should be the most perplexing aspect of this otherwise lovely dream.

Clearing her dry throat, she tilts her head slightly, his face a blur of colour out of the corner of her eye. “Will you eat too?” she asks, not quite boldly, but already less shaken than a moment ago. It is a silly question, one that might very well raise his ire, but she can’t bear the thought of padding along in silence, with him breathing silently down her neck all the way to the kitchens.

He shrugs, and she feels the motion judder through her own shoulders. “Only if you don’t finish every lemon cake in sight immediately,” he sneers, and the light-heartedness of his response leaves her so ill at ease that she can find nothing more to say for the rest of their journey.

He stares openly at her as she nibbles on the cake, savouring the tart sweetness on her tongue with a shiver. His visage is still shocking no matter how many times she sees him, but his face is still and calm, making him seem almost a different man from the one she knows in Kings Landing. The cooks make easy conversation with him, and the maids smile at him as they pass, and Sansa gapes at him when he returns their smiles, until he turns his steely gaze back on her and she darts her eyes elsewhere in a hurry.

The Hound clears his throat just as she is licking her fingers clean of crumbs, seemingly uncomfortable as he shifts his weight. “Lady Sansa,” he says, and the oddity of his formal address makes her snap her gaze up to his, wide-eyed. “If there’s anything wrong – if I have done anything to displease you…” He allows his words to trail off, features contorted in confusion and concern.

Sansa blinks at him, anxious not to spoil her dream thus far. “No, you haven’t,” she admits, quite truthfully. “I just – I am not feeling my best today.” She smiles weakly, eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

He gives only a low rumble of assent in response, before silence falls between them. Sansa hesitates, unsure what to do now that her belly is full and her mood lighter than it has been in months. Turning to leave the kitchen, she is only the slightest bit surprised that the Hound trails half a body-length behind her in continued silence.

The next thing she knows, her first step out of the kitchen sends a small figure crashing bodily into her, and she falls back with a muffled cry of terror, her hand flying to her mouth. _He’s found me_, is her first illogical thought, but the terror at the mere suggestion of Joffrey’s presence is already winding through her, destroying any semblance of contentment that the illusion of home has created.

“Your Grace,” she gasps automatically, even as she feels strong arms grab her from behind, keeping her upright.

“Sansa!” Arya sputters at almost the same time, and pelts off back the way she had come before Sansa can do more than blink at the spectre of her little sister. She looks – wild, her dark hair a mess of flyaway tangles, slippers covered with mud. She looks exactly the way Sansa remembers her, an absolute disgrace and yet utterly in her element.

Her legs sag beneath her as she begins to weep, and the Hound says not a word as he presses the back of his hand to her forehead for a moment. With a sigh, he scoops her up into his arms, fingers pressing against the bend of her knee. He might be a beast, but he is also very warm as she curls against his chest, matching the curve of her neck to the meat of his arm.

Clutching at the front of his tunic, she sighs, “I want to go home.”

“Hush, little bird. You _are_ home,” he says roughly, but she only turns her face against his chest and closes her eyes.

* * *

“I’m here to escort the girl.”

Sansa turns from the window at the sound of the Hound’s gruff voice, her eyes shuttering as the door swings open. He looks larger than ever in his white armour, hair falling over his face, and the look he fixes on her is knife-sharp.

“The king has no need of you today. I’m to follow you about the gardens or whatever else it is you fancy doing,” he grunts, positioning himself by the doorway expectantly.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes to his, but they are stormy with annoyance, darker than in her dream, and she drops her gaze nervously.

She hears him fall into place behind her, plate clanking with each step. The sun is out and the sky is blue, but all she can think of is steel grey skies and the scratch of rough wool against her fingers.


	3. 2.1

Warm air settles heavily on her bare skin and leaves her sticky with sweat, and Sansa gives a little moan of discomfort, caught somewhere between sleeping and waking. She opens her eyes slowly, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling of the tower room with dismay. Kings Landing again.

She doesn’t quite know what to do except to let the maids tend to her just as before. All the while, she stares at herself in the mirror, at the face that is perfectly, undeniably her own, albeit a little gaunter, with haunted shadows beneath her eyes. This is no dream, she thinks, pressing her fingers lightly to her pale cheek.

She is still Sansa Stark, but for the first time the question occurs to her: _Is she the same Sansa Stark?_

She hopes for Sandor to appear again, even if he is far less pleasant than she is used to, for she can trust no one else in this strange place to tell her the truth – but this time, it is not Sandor who comes for her. The man who appears at her door is a stranger, short and dressed finely in white plate. He speaks to her like she is still a drooling babe, and she bristles at him in annoyance behind his back at first, although she soon gives that up in favour of gaping around at what little of the Red Keep she can see. The men all seem jolly and gallant, armoured in the heavy steel favoured by the south, some of them with gold cloaks fastened at their throats.

When she is finally brought before the boy she eventually realizes is the king, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms himself, she is dazzled for only a moment before he begins to spit vitriol at her, his voice young and shrill with anger. He screams of her brother Robb, of battles won and lost and men slain, and a monster direwolf that sounds very little like the Grey Wind who so enjoys being scratched behind his ears.

Sandor is standing to the side, just beneath the dais, and Sansa realizes with some surprise that he bears the same white cloak as her rather more diminutive escort. He still looks vaguely angry, but she gives him her best _I need help _look when his eyes land on her, the same beseeching expression she always employs whenever her lemon cake thefts are discovered by Septa Mordane. His brow twitches for a single moment in confusion, before he looks away.

“Ser Preston,” the king calls, his mouth curving into a sneer as he looks down at Sansa. She blinks up at his cold eyes, mouth half-opening in question. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her escort take a step towards her before a sudden burst of pain crashes through her body, his fist meeting the softness of her torso beneath her ribs. She staggers sideways and almost loses her footing, a surprised gasp puffing from her as she whirls around to face her attacker.

Ser Preston takes another step forward and bends, and this time his fist catches her low in the gut. Bile rises up her throat and she gags, spitting onto the floor while tears rise unbidden in her eyes.

“Please!” The word wheezes out of Sansa’s airless lungs as she folds in on herself, knees buckling. Another bolt of pain lances up her legs as she hits the floor, and she tries to scream, but the pain is so bad she can barely even draw breath to cry. She tries anyway, whimpering and pleading as pitifully as she can, crawling away from the knight’s steel-toed boots, anything that might make this cruel young king call off this senseless attack.

She doesn’t understand why she’s being punished for Robb’s wars. She doesn’t even understand _why _Robb is at war. He’s just a silly boy whose greatest dream in life is to grow a beard on his chin, and perhaps one day in the very, very distant future best Sandor in a swordfight.

But Robb isn’t here now, and she flinches away from the mailed fist flying at her once more. It catches her high in the shoulder instead of the meat of her arm and she feels something _give_. She shrieks as whiteness explodes across her eyes, and then everything goes dark very quickly.

She can hear the boy king saying something distantly, and it feels like she’s drifting when someone abruptly grabs her by her uninjured shoulder and pulls her upright, out of the blackness engulfing her. She blinks blearily at Sandor’s tightly drawn face, his lips set and pinched, and a sniffle works its way out of her. Before she can say his name, he grabs her right arm and pulls _hard_. There is a ‘pop’ that she isn’t quite sure if she feels or hears, and then she slumps forward into his arms and passes out for true.

The maester is still fussing over her when she comes to, tutting under his breath over the flowering bruises marring her skin and the bloodied gouges from Ser Preston’s kicks. Sansa stares at the ceiling, her lip trembling. She can say with certainty that she has never been in so much pain in her life, but somehow the memory of the grim satisfaction on Ser Preston’s face as he hit her makes her feel worse. There had been a tiny spatter of blood right near her hand as she crawled and begged for mercy, just a few miniscule drops of vivid crimson etched in her mind. Her blood.

She feels – lost. She has always been a good, devoted sister and daughter, and yet she feels like this must be some form of punishment from the gods for her wrongdoings. Admittedly, she has called Arya unkind names, and once she screamed at Bran after he ripped one of her embroidered handkerchiefs by accident.

She hardly notices when first the maester, and then her maids, leave her one by one, trickling out of the room that is not hers with only a whisper of fabric, as if afraid they might be called back at any moment. She closes her eyes and doses fitfully, waiting for the pain to recede, waiting to feel the telltale cool air of the north on her skin again.

The orange glow of sunset is painting the city by the time she hears Sandor’s low voice just outside the door, and her heart leaps in her chest. He’s always telling her, “_I won’t always be around to fix everything for you, little bird_,” with that tiny indulgent quirk to his lips, but his mere presence is enough for now. Besides, this might be a problem that even he can’t solve.

“I’m to check on how the girl is faring. If she suffers any permanent damage, you can be bloody well sure the king will be _displeased_.” The door squeaks open just a crack and she hears him give a nasty chuckle, before the hasty retreat of someone she hadn’t known was outside her door in the first place.

He comes in then, face hard as stone up to the moment his eyes land on her, and then his eyes turn from slate to a dangerous stormy grey. Sansa digs her fingers into the blankets tucked neatly beneath her armpits, the small pool of happiness at the sight of his familiar face suddenly giving way to a queer sensation of anger. She presses her lips together as he takes in the white bandages supporting her injured shoulder, the beginnings of a dark reddish blotch peeking out from beneath the sling.

She can’t remember the last time she was truly angry with Sandor, if indeed she ever has been, but seeing the way he is simply standing there stiffly, so painfully useless and so completely unlike the Sandor she knows, sends a dull rage simmering through her. He is her sworn shield, her friend and protector, and yet he stood silently by while an armoured man beat her like she was an errant hound.

“You shouldn’t have let them do that,” she says coldly, feeling every inch a wronged lady. “You _wouldn’t _have let them do that, not if we were in Winterfell.”

Sandor blinks, and for a moment he looks a comical blend of surprise and hurt. “What’s all this stupid talk of Winterfell again?” he snaps, fists clenching at his sides. Sansa lets her lip curl in distaste – she knows she’s wounded him with her words, and she’s glad for it, for it can hardly hurt as much as how she’s feeling.

The silence lasts for only a heartbeat longer before a dark fury abruptly overtakes his features. In two large, resounding steps, he’s standing by her bed, looking for all the world like he might be about to strangle her. Sansa glares up at him, almost wanting him to, just so she can scream and scream and perhaps wake up from this horrible nightmare.

“You think you’re being a clever little bird, don’t you? You think a dog like me will protect you? I serve the Lannisters, girl, and don’t you forget that. There’s no one you can trust here.” He spits the words at her like arrows, and Sansa feels her face grow hot with anger. Pushing herself up with her left arm, she lets out a little gasp of pain as the motion pulls at her injuries. Beside her, Sandor’s hand twitches.

“You’re so _hateful_ here,” she snarls, breathing hard and closing her eyes, her voice softening with pain and exhaustion. “But I have no one else. You swore yourself to me, Sandor. Bring me home – I don’t belong here. I don’t know why I’m here. Please. Everything hurts.” Her fingers are thrumming against the sheets in a tremor of terror, and she can’t seem to stop.

“The last time, it was the frightened little bird I brought out the next morning,” Sandor says slowly, still glowering. “You’ll be home again tomorrow.”

“You don’t know that,” Sansa whispers, and she is ashamed of how her voice is shaking. Her mother would never allow her fear to show like this. A true lady would never allow her fear to show like this.

“And neither do you,” he counters, brow raising. Sansa shoots him a half-hearted glare as she tries to shift herself back down onto the bed. Her side is screaming at her with every minute movement, and all she wants to do is curl up and weep, if only it wouldn’t hurt her even more. She truly has no idea how the Sansa who belongs here is still alive and standing tall before her tormentors, not if it hurts so much every time.

Sandor watches her in silence until finally he blows out a long sigh of exasperation through his nose. “Come on,” he mutters, sounding annoyed. “I’ll help you.” Sansa lets out a breath of relief and nods, and he presses his lips together tensely. Reaching under the covers, he hooks his arm carefully beneath her knees, supporting her back with the other. He keeps looking at her as if she might fall apart in his arms, lifting her a scant inch above the mattress before laying her back down with her head positioned comfortably on the down pillow.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, brushing his hand with hers before he can withdraw completely. He freezes, a vein in his neck popping visibly, just long enough for her to hold lightly on to his fingers, the warmth radiating from them a much-needed lifeline from the confusion of the day.

Sandor shakes his head roughly. “You shouldn’t be thanking me. I haven’t done a single bloody thing to help you.” He pulls away from her, although not ungently, his fingers flexing before clenching once more into a fist.

Sansa looks at him, at this angry, tender-hearted, too-familiar stranger, and a stir of warmth curls beneath her breastbone. He might not be doing a very good job of protecting her, but he’s still better than nothing at all.

“You will, Sandor,” she promises. “I believe in you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon Sansa getting beaten by the Kingsguard is actually the original scene I had in mind for this fic, because I wanted to know how Sandor would react. He ended up not doing anything (lol) but I did get to write some angry Sansa, so that was fun.


	4. 2.2

When Sansa next opens her eyes to the cold of the north, she feels something in her chest drain out of her, a hollowing that leaves her empty in a way that Joffrey’s mocking smile never could. It feels a bit like being forced to see her father’s head on a spike again, that same cruelty of knowing he will never smile at her again in that small, measured way of his, his calm and strength utterly implacable.

Winterfell is already awake. She can hear Ser Rodrik shouting somewhere in the distance, and the incessant barking of the dogs in the kennels. The memory of Arya’s startled expression just outside the kitchen suddenly crosses the forefront of her mind, and the burst of longing that runs through her spurs her to action. Sliding out of bed, she draws a cloak around her nightgown and pushes the door open, peeking cautiously out into the corridor.

“What are you doing?” She jumps at the sound of the Hound’s low growl from his position outside her door, only half-surprised as she turns to regard him carefully. He looks more amused than hostile, his stance almost relaxed, and she sucks in a breath of relief at his good mood. He may not _belong_, but she is glad to see him if it means that she will not find another Kingsguard in his place.

Drawing herself up, she says as haughtily as she can manage, “I’m going to look for Arya.”

“And what has the little wolf done this time?” he asks, with a rasping chuckle under his breath as he follows at her heels. His presence behind her is less strange than she would have thought, but it throws her off to hear the soft hiss of chainmail on him instead of the unsubtle clank of plate.

“Nothing. I just want to see her.” She stops just down the corridor before Arya’s door and frowns at him, before slipping into her sister’s bedchamber and leaving him behind.

Seeing Arya sprawled out like a lazing bear, her arm dangling over the corner of the bed and the tips of her fingers peeking out from beneath her blankets, Sansa can’t help but smile. All of a sudden, her little sister’s wildness, her infuriating defiance and her loud, brash words – it all feels like the most wonderful form of freedom.

Arya lets out a murmur of discontent when Sansa lifts the blankets and shoves her to the side, making just enough space for her to slide in beside the softly snuffling girl. “Sansa, get out,” she mutters, almost unintelligibly, as she rolls away to face the wall.

_I hope you’re safe in Winterfell, just like this._ Sansa holds the words in her like a prayer, pressing her shoulder to Arya’s back and allowing her eyes to slide shut.

It feels like a tiny miracle that lasts all morning, this tenuous grasp of home sliding between her fingers before it disappears again. Sansa sits and sews and smiles, just as she has done so many days past in Kings Landing, with the queen and her ladies, but today the air is cooler and her smiles are warmer. There are no stares prickling against her skin, eyes of hostility and curiosity and cool amusement waiting for her next mistake – or for Robb’s next victory.

She used to love sewing, and now she finds that she does again. She smiles when Jeyne giggles to her about knights and songs and Robb’s oh-so-handsome face; she smiles when Septa Mordane clucks despairingly over Arya’s jagged stitches; she smiles and grabs Arya before she can run off to the training yard, and kisses her struggling sister on the cheek.

She feels safe here, faced with Arya’s loud whining and Jeyne’s uncomplicated friendship. She can feel the presence of her father and mother in the very air itself, in the controlled bustle of activity around the castle and the warmth in the eyes of the servants, who have served the lord and lady of Winterfell for more years than Sansa has had namedays.

She misses them desperately, but she fears to lay eyes on them as well. This is a Winterfell that feels too good to be true, a Winterfell that has not known the sadness that beats painfully in Sansa’s heart, and she doesn’t want to break the illusion any sooner than necessary.

The Hound reappears just past midday, his thin hair damp from his wash, although the faint smell of sweat still lingers about him. Septa Mordane gives him a curt nod as she leaves the solar, and he looks to Sansa immediately, quiet and polite in that surreal way that is no longer as jarring as it once was. Sweeping her eyes over his muscled form without thought, she frowns at the sight of a fresh bandage just visible under the edge of his sleeve.

“Greyjoy,” he grunts, seeing the direction of her gaze. “The idiot boy was playing the fool with your brother. Tripped with his sword in hand and it’s me who pays the price, of course.” He scoffs sourly, and Sansa has to look away to hide the small surge of horrified amusement that tugs at her lips. She can barely believe her own ears, but she has never heard the fearsome Hound sound so…_sulky_.

“I hope it doesn’t hurt too badly,” she says sincerely, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she dares a quick glance up at his face. She has gained a newfound respect for all the men who charge so bravely into battle ever since the beatings started. She can barely move from the pain after suffering less than half a dozen blows from a single man, but she is certain that the Hound would still be roaring and attacking like a wild beast even if he were covered head to toe in a multitude of bruises and cuts.

The Hound smiles frighteningly at her, his face twisting asymmetrically with every motion. “Merely a scratch. It was Greyjoy who near pissed himself when it happened,” he scoffs, one huge hand landing on her shoulder and jolting her with controlled force. She thinks it might be intended as a reassuring gesture, and she is surprised to find that her response falls not too far off the mark. He has, after all, never yet turned his strength against her, nor has she ever truly feared that he might.

She might not be so afraid of him if he were always like this, she thinks, but he always responds to her ever so hatefully, like a dog that has been beaten too many times to recognise kindness. If only the world had been gentler to him, if only he were less angry – if only he were just the way he is right now.

The thought saddens her, a reminder that this lighter-hearted, almost gallant Hound is not hers to keep.

“I would like to visit the godswood,” she says quietly, reaching instinctively for the only source of solace she has had in many long months.

The Hound shifts, clearly surprised. “And miss your meal?” he growls disapprovingly. “The gods will still be there later in the day, little bird.”

“As will the food.” Sansa smiles wanly at him. “I just need some quiet. I would not be able to stomach anything now as it is.”

The Hound glares at her, and she braces herself for more of his usual scathing remarks about her helplessness and her lack of sense, but he says nothing, only gives another disgruntled snort that almost makes her smile. He is rather pleasant company this way, she thinks, large and dangerous and just as disagreeable as ever, but with an underlying softness to him that is no longer buried beneath his ever-simmering fury.

He follows her silently to the godswood, and is there to place a hand between her shoulders when she stops abruptly, staggered by the sheer force of presence that presses down on her the moment she steps amongst the trees. The woods are alive with the chittering of small animals and the endless whistle of the wind through the leaves, but there is also somehow a watchful silence winding through it all. It feels nothing like the solitary peace of the godswood in the Red Keep – there is an unnamable reverence in the air here, a respectful fear of the stare of unseen eyes crawling against her skin.

Sansa’s legs crumple beneath her as she comes upon the heart tree, weeping bloody sap down its bone-white bark. _Let me stay, _she prays, harder than she has ever prayed for Joffrey’s death. _This is my home. I am a Stark of Winterfell. Let me stay, please._

She wonders how much the old gods see. Do they know that she does not quite belong here? Do they hear her when she is in Kings Landing, begging for salvation each day? Did they feel anger, she wonders, when her father, he who kept faith with the old gods all his life, so unjustly lost his head far in the south?

She knows they see – this much Sansa believes – but she does not know if they care.

It is only when the Hound goes to his knees beside her and draws her into his arms that she realizes she is sobbing, gasping and breathless with the force of her tears. She curls her fingers over his arm, remembering too late his wound from that morning, but he gives no sign that she is hurting him, only pulls her tighter against his chest as he murmurs meaningless words of comfort to her.

“You’re alright, little bird,” he whispers in his rough voice, rocking her back and forth like a babe. “I’ve got you.” She clings to him so tightly her fingertips are white and bloodless, as if he can somehow ground her in this place with his strength. She feels as if her head might split from her crying, and again she wonders if the old gods care, if this is their doing, for whatever unknowable reasons the gods have for doing things.

“I want to _stay_,” she repeats, over and over, her voice rising to a wail, and the Hound holds her as tight as he can, just as helpless as she is.

* * *

She does not see the Hound for days, except when she comes before Joffrey and he tuts with false sympathy over her injured arm, and his sworn shield stands motionless to the side. Slowly, the bruises she does not remember receiving darken and fade.

She is quiet, demure, polite – a perfect little lady drifting about the Keep like little more than a ghost.

When he finally does appear before her again, it is at the godswood, before the solemn eyes of the great oak. She hears the crunch of grass and soil behind her and scrambles to her feet, whirling about with wide eyes.

“Oh,” she breathes, and the tightened coil in her chest abruptly loosens. “It’s you.” The Hound stands at the edge of the clearing, so still he could almost be a statue of the Warrior himself, and says nothing, but she knows. She knows he is here for her, just to see her.

She looks him in the eye carefully, seeing the churn of emotion in his sky-grey eyes as he watches her right back. “Would you guard me while I pray?” she asks, lowering herself back down onto the dirt.

He nods, his lips twitching upwards almost imperceptibly in response, and something in Sansa’s throat thickens at the sight. Has anyone else ever seen this shadow of a smile without its mocking, cruel edge, she wonders, or does it belong only to her? The thought fills some of the hollowness within her, a queer mixture of wonder and pride that leaves her breathless.

Looking away, she lowers her head and closes her eyes. The air smells like flowers, their fragrance pungent in the heat, and she can hear birds chirping away merrily in the high branches. There is peace in the godswood, and safety with the Hound. The calm that settles over her feels like hope – Winterfell is waiting, and someday she will set foot within its beloved walls once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this turned into an 'AU!sansan help canon!sansan improve their relationship' and I have no idea how, but I hope it didn't feel too pointless! I recently finished rereading ACOK and feel a lil sad at the upcoming sansan-less books. (Also for someone who professes to cringe at sap I sure write a lot of sappy stuff lol.)


End file.
